It was a fine Sunday morning to run from home to Malmesbury, one of my favourite Cotswold towns. But already at close to 17 miles for the day’s route, I had built up a powerful thirst. Running out of new pubs to try in town, I opted for the King’s Arms public bar on the right side of the building so as not to offend the diners to the left but found it also far too nice for my sweat drenched self.

Oh well, they had a friendly pub labrador. They also had not-so-friendly drinkers one of whom scowled and turned his back on me when I asked him to slide the newspaper my way. What a dick. The barmaid seemed friendly enough when I ordered my beverage but acted as if I had been rude by asking did she know if the chippy around the corner is open Sunday lunchtime.

I finished my beer and noticed that, while serving a yuppie couple, the barmaid and what I took to be the manager were staring at me. Popping my cap on and donning my pack I smiled and said, “so long.” Silence greeted me. I guess I should feel lucky the dog didn’t bite me.